Home Comes the Heart
by MagicSwede1965
Summary: The past catches up with one of Roarke's employees, forcing him to make some major changes in his life. Follows 'Shadows on the Stars'.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** _Thanks again to Harry2, Terry L. Gardner and Kyryn…and thanks as well to all other readers and any reviewers who'd like to comment. Couldn't resist a fluffy little romance story this time out; but one character's fate will be left unresolved till later…_

* * *

§ § § -- December 21, 1996

On this final weekend before Christmas, preparations for the holiday were in full swing, while conversely, tourist traffic on the island was light. It was New Year's Eve and Day that were the major winter holidays to spend on Fantasy Island. So, this weekend, there was just one fantasy, which Leslie was surprised to find had put Roarke in a very somber mood. "Why the long face?" she asked when they met on the porch. "It can't be on account of Christmas…at least, I hope not." She grinned.

Roarke raised an eyebrow at her. "As you are well aware, I'm looking forward to the holiday as much as anyone else." He watched the car approach around the bend in the lane. "No, it's merely our lone fantasy this weekend. When we reach the dock, I'll explain."

And explain he did, when a delicately beautiful Asian woman stepped out of the plane, leading a little girl by one hand. "Miss Katsumi Nishimura, who comes to us from Kyoto, Japan. The child is her six-year-old daughter, Haruko."

Leslie watched them come down the docking ramp, the mother looking uncertain, the child sticking close to her. "They both look utterly lost," she said, her heart going out to them instantly.

Roarke smiled at her. "You're correct, Leslie, they are…in a sense," he said. "Miss Nishimura has never left Japan until now: and the reason for her having done so is a very compelling one. Until recently she was a geisha—a very popular and well-known one at that—and about eight years ago, she had her first encounter with the man who ultimately captured her heart. They saw each other every few weeks, and after a time the young man insisted on being entertained exclusively by her. Then he stopped coming to the house where she was employed—just at the time she discovered she was pregnant with Haruko."

"That had to be seven years ago. Why wait so long to leave?" Leslie wondered.

"The life of a geisha is highly secluded," Roarke said, "and she had never really known any other. So she was content to raise her daughter in the house where she had lived since her early childhood."

"Then why did she leave at all? It couldn't have been because of that man she fell in love with, or she'd have left long before this," Leslie reasoned.

Roarke nodded. "Correct. No, she had resigned herself to his loss, because geisha are not allowed the luxury of love. What compelled her to escape was the revelation that the women who ran the geisha house intended to train young Haruko in the life, to follow in her mother's footsteps. Miss Nishimura wanted more for her daughter, so she went to visit the last known place where the man she loved was employed. She learned that he was no longer with that establishment and was told he had left the country altogether. Miss Nishimura was left with little choice but to follow suit; so she hid what few treasured possessions she had within her daughter's schoolbag, sold the many intricate kimonos that were part of her geisha wardrobe, and slipped out of the house with the child under the guise of an afternoon outing. They simply never returned—instead, they took a plane out of the country."

"That took some serious courage," Leslie commented. "So I assume that the man she loves is here on the island."

"Indeed he is," Roarke said. "For that matter, he is closer than you suspect. The love of her life, and the father of her daughter, is Kazuo Miyamoto."

Leslie cranked around and gasped. "Chef Miyamoto? _Our_ Chef Miyamoto?"

"The very same," Roarke said. "And he is completely unaware of all this. It's my great fear that both he and Miss Nishimura will be in for a very rude shock." With perfect timing, a native girl stepped forward bearing a tray with Roarke's drink, which he raised to Katsumi Nishimura and her wide-eyed daughter. "My dear guests, I am Mr. Roarke, your host. _Kangei suru._ Welcome to Fantasy Island!"

‡ ‡ ‡

Half an hour later at the main house, while they were awaiting their guests, Roarke reread the letter he had initially received from Katsumi Nishimura and frowned in concern. "I have a feeling we may need a translator," he said thoughtfully. "Unfortunately, I know of only one person who might consent to the task."

Leslie's eyes went wide and she turned to him in alarm. "Father, I don't think you should do that," she said worriedly.

Roarke's curious gaze met hers. "Indeed! And why not?"

She hesitated for a moment. "Well, who do you have in mind?"

"Reiko Tokita, of course," Roarke said. His eyebrow popped up when Leslie winced and turned away, shaking her head. "What's wrong with that?"

"I was afraid you'd mention Reiko's name. Father, I thought you knew. She and Chef Miyamoto have been seeing each other exclusively for almost a year!"

Roarke studied her in silence until, quizzical at his lack of response, she turned back to him. "How 'exclusive' is this relationship to which you refer?"

"Well, I heard it all from Michiko, and she said Reiko thinks he might propose to her. Apparently there hasn't been an actual offer as yet, but Michiko made it sound as if it were only a matter of time. I really don't think you want to open this can of worms."

Roarke's voice chilled a bit. "Well, I'm sorry, Leslie, but Miss Nishimura's English is, as she herself admits, quite basic—certainly scant enough that she will probably feel more comfortable speaking through someone who can relay her statements clearly to us, and ours to her as well. Since the Tokitas raised their children to be fluent in both Japanese and English, and since none of the four oldest are available, the task necessarily falls to Reiko."

Leslie sighed. "I just know someone's going to be very badly hurt."

"Do you have another choice?" was Roarke's only rejoinder to this. When she sighed in defeat, he lifted the telephone receiver and dialed the Tokita home, while Leslie watched with dismay. She bit her lip when Roarke's end of the conversation indicated that Reiko had agreed to help, and was relieved to have something else to focus on when there was a knock at the door. She jumped up and let in Katsumi Nishimura, who shyly returned Leslie's smile of welcome and bowed.

Surprised but rolling easily with the punches, Leslie bowed back. "Come in, please," she said, stepping aside and indicating the foyer. Katsumi made her way in, a little hesitant, her eyes wide with amazement as she took in her surroundings. Leslie watched, following her into the study, eager to make friends.

Roarke hung up and arose, smiling. "Miss Nishimura, welcome! Please sit." He gestured at the chairs, and Katsumi bowed deeply to him before she slowly sat down, still gazing around her. Leslie took the other chair, enjoying Katsumi's awed absorption of the room. She and Roarke both waited till Katsumi's skittish gaze came to rest on Leslie.

"Where is Haruko?" Leslie asked curiously.

"In tiny house," Katsumi told her in a soft, hesitant voice. It suited her delicately lovely face; Katsumi possessed a timeless Asian beauty that could render most men breathless and most women intensely envious. She was dressed in an understated ivory-colored skirt, blouse and blazer, which seemed oddly out of place on her. Leslie thought she should have been clad in an elegant kimono. "Someone come be with her so I can try speak you." She winced, as if she knew her English wasn't quite up to her needs.

"Someone who speaks Japanese will be here very soon," Roarke assured her, and Katsumi smiled gratefully.

"_Arigato,_ Roarke-_san,"_ she said, and his dark eyes warmed. Katsumi smiled again, fleetingly, her gaze skipping away from his and settling on Leslie again. Leslie's smile was so filled with hope that Katsumi suddenly grinned. "Name of you?" she asked unexpectedly in her broken English.

"Leslie Hamilton," the name's owner said.

Katsumi's black eyes popped open and she giggled behind her hand. "Your name not easy! Maybe I practice say it every night," she said, and Leslie laughed delightedly.

"I hope we can be friends," she said. "Can you tell us a little about the man you're looking for?"

"Yes, I want be friends," Katsumi agreed. "We shake, yes?" She extended her hand and Leslie grasped it, shaking; both women blushed when they saw Roarke's amused grin. "Yes, friends," Katsumi said with shy determination. "Man I want find…he never say name. I know him as _Itamae-san_. Mean 'chef' in Japanese." Leslie and Roarke looked at each other then, and Katsumi noted the exchange. "You know _Itamae-san?"_

Before either Roarke or Leslie could formulate a response, the door opened and Reiko Tokita stepped inside, leaning over the half-wall next to the steps with a quizzical look on her face. "Hi, Mr. Roarke, Leslie. Do you still need my help?"

"Yes, Reiko, please come in," said Roarke, rising again. He indicated Katsumi as Leslie got up and moved behind the desk so Reiko could sit down. "Miss Nishimura, this is Reiko Tokita—she can translate for you. Reiko, our guest, Miss Katsumi Nishimura."

The two smiled at each other and Reiko took the vacated chair. "Well," she said, glancing a little uncomfortably at Roarke, "I guess I'll have to hear some stuff I'd never be privy to otherwise, if I'm going to translate properly."

"It's quite all right, Reiko," Roarke said, "but I would remind you of my privacy policy in regard to our guests."

"I understand, Mr. Roarke," Reiko said. "Anytime you're ready."

Roarke nodded and addressed Katsumi. "Miss Nishimura, _Itamae-san,_ as you call him, is indeed here on the island. He doesn't yet know you are here…" Katsumi frowned a little, and Roarke paused long enough to let Reiko translate his words. At the last sentence, Katsumi bit her lip, and Roarke continued: "…but he will." Reiko repeated this in Japanese, and Katsumi nodded slowly.

"When will you tell him?" Reiko translated Katsumi's question.

"As soon as is convenient," said Roarke. "Perhaps the best solution is to see that you meet in private, at your bungalow. You must understand that your meeting with him may not go as you hope. He may find it a shock to see you again, or perhaps he won't remember you at all. You should be prepared for that eventuality."

Katsumi listened intently to Reiko's translation and nodded again, eyes downcast. After a moment she took a deep breath and spoke softly in Japanese, and Reiko canted over the arm of her chair to hear a little better. She cleared her throat, turned to Roarke and reported, "She says that she's aware of that, Mr. Roarke, but _Itamae-san_ is her only hope for a life other than the one she's always known. She has to take the chance."

"Of course," Roarke agreed. "Very well. Miss Nishimura, Leslie will escort you back to your bungalow, and you may expect a visitor in one hour." He spared Reiko only the barest glance as he added the last. Reiko translated, and Katsumi smiled at her words.

"_Domo arigato,_ Roarke-_san,"_ she said, rising and bowing deeply once again. Roarke dipped his head in response and smiled, then looked at Leslie, who slipped out from behind the desk and cleared her throat, just a trace self-consciously.

"Come with me, Nishimura_-san_," she said, making Katsumi look up in surprise and then smile very widely. Reiko stared at Leslie too.

"How did you know the proper form of address?" Reiko exclaimed.

Leslie grinned. "Michiko was very good about answering questions when I had to write a report about Japan for my tenth-grade cultural-studies class," she said cheerfully, making Reiko laugh. "Some of it actually stuck with me. Thanks for the translation services, Reiko." She turned to Katsumi. "Do you want Reiko to come with us?"

Katsumi looked confused, and Reiko tipped her head. "Do you think you'll need me for any more translation?"

Leslie shrugged. "I'm not sure how eager she would be to speak English."

Reiko giggled and spoke to Katsumi, who released a laugh as delicate as the rest of her and turned to Leslie with sparkling black eyes. "You help me speak," she said, her L's coming out slurred like R's. "I want learn English, and you help me."

"I'll be happy to help you," Leslie assured her. "Let's go, then." She and Katsumi made their way out, and Reiko got to her feet.

"I hope she and _Itamae-san_ have a happy ending, Mr. Roarke," she said and grinned.

Roarke smiled back. "You're very kind, Reiko, and my thanks for your generous assistance." Reiko nodded and left, and Roarke sat back in his chair, faintly unsettled by the irony of the situation. Little wonder that Leslie had been so disquieted, he reflected, but in the end, it was better to get things in the open so that there could be a resolution. And to that end, he sat up and called the hotel, asking that they send Chef Miyamoto to the main house without delay.


	2. Chapter 2

§ § § -- December 21, 1996

In fifteen minutes there came a knock and the door opened; Chef Kazuo Miyamoto stepped inside and greeted Roarke with a smile and a quick, shallow bow. "Good morning, Mr. Roarke," he said. "You sent for me?" His English was quite good, though gently accented, after having lived outside Japan for a few years.

"Yes, Miyamoto-_san_, please, come in and sit down," Roarke requested, watching as the chef came fully into the room and settled into the chair that Katsumi had recently occupied. "All is well at the hotel?"

"Everything's going exactly on schedule, sir," Chef Miyamoto replied. "We're ready for the lunch rush and working on tonight's menu along with the fare for the luau."

Roarke smiled. "Excellent," he said approvingly. "I must commend you, Chef Miyamoto. You have run a tight ship at the hotel since the day you first came into my employ, and I am very pleased with your performance. Not only that, but you have received many very positive reviews from our guests, and Leslie and I have eaten at the hotel often enough to know that those reviews are justified. I believe you deserve a raise."

The chef's eyes lit. "Thank you so much, sir! I'm very happy to know I've been of service. I always try to do my very best."

"You're a credit to Fantasy Island's reputation," Roarke said warmly, making a note to himself in regard to the raise. He let the pen fall to the paper, his mind turning to the real reason he'd summoned Chef Miyamoto, and sighed silently before raising his eyes once more. "Forgive me for the evident prevarication, Miyamoto-_san_, but I must admit that your job performance is not the reason I called you here. One of our guests this weekend has come here specifically to find you."

Chef Miyamoto tilted his head a bit in puzzlement. "May I ask who, sir?"

"Her name is Katsumi Nishimura," Roarke said.

The chef's gaze fell out of focus while he tried to place the name. "I'm afraid I don't know anyone by that name, Mr. Roarke. Maybe my reputation precedes me." He grinned, and Roarke chuckled briefly, a voiceless huff.

"Perhaps, in fact, it does…in a way," he said. "I realize this may sound like a very odd request to you, but I ask that you go to see her. She is waiting in the Plumeria Bungalow."

The chef stared at him. "Are you asking me to go there now, sir?"

"Please," said Roarke, though his tone indicated that it was less a request than a command. "When you get there, I believe you will understand why I ask this of you."

"All right, Mr. Roarke, I'll go right now," Chef Miyamoto said slowly, rising from his chair. "Unless there's anything else you need…"

"No, that will be all. Thank you again, Miyamoto-_san_," Roarke replied. The chef bowed once more and left the house.

Leslie and Katsumi had talked a little on the way to the bungalow, and when they got there Katsumi turned to her with a pleading look. "You stay, Resrie? I want talk…"

"I can stay for a little bit," Leslie said, honestly wishing she had more time to spend with Katsumi. "What would you like to talk about?"

"You see my girl, yes?" Katsumi beamed when Leslie nodded, and turned to call to one of the back rooms. _"Haruko-chan, koko ni kite kudasai!"_ Leslie watched as the little girl she'd seen at the plane dock bounded out of the room and into her mother's arms; Katsumi knelt and hugged the child, speaking rapid Japanese with her before indicating Leslie and adding what Leslie presumed was an introduction which included her name, slurred L's and all. She dredged her mind for what few words she knew and aimed her smile at Haruko.

"_Ohayo gozaimasu!"_ she said, and Haruko giggled and responded shyly before breaking loose from her mother and scuttling back to the bedroom where she'd come from. Katsumi smiled apologetically.

"Haruko not good with new people," she said, straightening. "She learn English soon too. Maybe we both practice your name."

Leslie laughed again. "Have you and Haruko eaten anything?"

Katsumi blinked. "I not eat. Not think about eat. Haruko maybe…" She considered the idea, then nodded as if in confirmation. "Yes, Haruko eat some food. Some nice fruit, yes? I not eat…meet _Itamae-san…"_

"You're nervous," Leslie guessed, and Katsumi shrugged, looking blank. But Leslie smiled. "That's all right. I'll go and get Haruko something for breakfast. _Itamae-san_ may come before I return."

"Yes, he come," Katsumi murmured, swallowing hard. Leslie, afraid a sympathetic touch might be bad manners, contented herself with a little smile and slipped out.

Katsumi watched her leave, wishing she had had more time to practice her English before leaving Japan. Unfortunately, it had been necessary to act quickly to get away, before the women at the geisha house realized she and Haruko weren't coming back. Now they were here, for better or for worse, and for the first time she wondered uneasily what they would do if _Itamae-san_ failed to remember her—or worse, did remember her and wanted nothing to do with her and Haruko. There was nothing for them back in Japan, and she was unprepared for life anywhere else. Her worried thoughts carried her far enough away that she was badly startled by the knock on the door. "Come in!" she called in Japanese.

The door opened, and for the first time in seven years, she saw the man whose face had never left her memory. Katsumi stared, drinking him in, unable to speak.

‡ ‡ ‡

Kazuo Miyamoto wasn't sure what he would find when he reached the Plumeria Bungalow, but he definitely hadn't expected to hear a voice speaking in Japanese. Slowly he pushed the door open and stepped inside, gazing curiously at the incredibly lovely young woman standing in the middle of the main room. There was only one other place he had seen a face like that, and it had been—

Memory hit him with the speed and force of an express train and he stumbled back a step, emitting a strangled sound of shock. It couldn't be…! He'd thought he had pushed the image of her to the darkest depths of his brain after his transfer from Kyoto to Tokyo, and for years he'd almost succeeded—except in his dreams. When he least expected it, the flawless porcelain-doll face would smile softly at him, and he'd wake up yearning. After a long time, even those had grown few and far between; since coming to Fantasy Island, he hadn't dreamed of her at all. Now the sight of her face was as indelible as a tattoo: she was here before him, and he would never be able to banish her image.

"Yoriko," he breathed, unaware he'd even spoken. He was lost in flashes of memory—walks beneath spring cherry blossoms; talks of his business, his dreams, his life in general; her attentive interest in him, her instant accedence to his every request, her sweet, soft smile; and—

"_Itamae-san?"_ Her hesitant, questioning voice brought him back to the present with a jerk, and he stared at her, thinking her Western dress oddly out-of-place, yet appealing, on her. She had never worn anything other than a kimono when he visited her, and she'd had a way of slowly removing it that— He had to shake his head sharply once to dispel the vivid image that tried to fill his head. Not quite sure he wasn't dreaming all this, he took careful steps toward her, watching her lovely face grow apprehensive, with a glimmer of fear in those fathomless eyes.

"Ah, Yoriko, it's really you," he murmured. He couldn't resist reaching out to touch her cheek, trying to convince himself she was actually here, in the flesh. Her eyes drifted shut and she leaned into his palm, a tiny smile stretching her lips. "What are you doing here? How did you get here? How did you know I was here?"

His beautiful geisha opened shining black eyes. "I asked. I dreamed of you for so long, but I thought you would never wish to see me again. Are you happy I am here?"

He blinked and dropped his hand, reality crashing in on him. "What are you doing here?" he asked, this time with serious intent.

She swallowed, so uncharacteristic of her, so at odds with the serene, secretive grace she had always exhibited with him in Kyoto. "I left," she said. "I had to leave. They wanted to train Haruko to follow me, and I don't want that life for her. I took her away."

He stared at her in confusion. "Who is Haruko?"

"Mama-san?" They both turned sharply at the timid little voice, and there in the doorway of a back room stood a little girl, looking uncertainly back and forth between the pair, a confused and frightened expression on her small round face. "Who is that man?"

He looked back at her, waiting for an answer every bit as much as the child, but far less prepared when it came. "He is your father, Haruko-chan."

Kazuo gaped at the child, who stared just as openly back at him; a movement caught his peripheral vision and he saw his geisha watching him with a pleading expression on her face. "That's impossible!" he protested.

"But she is your child," she insisted.

"I tell you, that can't be true," he said. "I had an illness as a child…one that kept me desperately sick for weeks. When I finally got well again and was examined by a doctor, he told me I would never be able to have a child."

Her hands dropped to her sides and her exquisite features took on an incongruous stubbornness. "Haruko is my daughter with you," she stated flatly. "I was never with another man after I knew you, _Itamae-san."_

The honorific alias made him realize that, whatever ultimately transpired between them, it might be best if he told her his name. "I am Kazuo Miyamoto," he said. "That is my true name, Yoriko…will you use it?"

She went pink, and the hopeful gleam re-entered her black eyes. "I will be happy to use it, if you will call me by my true name as well. Yoriko was my geisha name, and I have left that life behind. I am Katsumi Nishimura."

Kazuo and Katsumi smiled at each other at the same moment; then she ducked her head and he looked aside, clearing his throat. Haruko, till now a silent spectator, padded into the room and took refuge behind Katsumi, peering warily out at the visitor. Kazuo met her gaze, and she blinked and quickly ducked out of sight again, making him grin. "How old is she?" he asked.

"Six," said Katsumi. "She was conceived the very last time you and I met."

Kazuo swallowed visibly and looked away again. "I need time, Katsumi. Forgive me, but this is a great surprise to me, and I feel…" His voice trailed off when words failed him, and in the end he took refuge behind stiltedly formal Japanese manners. "It has been good to see you once more, Nishimura-_san_. Please forgive me, but I must take my leave now." He bowed to her and departed without another word.

Katsumi stared after him, bewildered, hurt and a little afraid. _I need time, Katsumi_… That had to mean that she would see him again, at the very least. The fact that he had used her given name—something done only between family members and close friends—spoke volumes to her. She turned to see her daughter's questioning face and smiled suddenly. "Don't worry, Haruko-_chan_. He is truly your father, and we will see him again."

Haruko looked a little doubtful, yet wistful at the same time. "It would be nice to have a daddy," she said before her expression changed. "I'm hungry, Mama. Will Hamilton-_san_ bring us some breakfast?"

Katsumi grinned. "Soon, yes. I think, however, if we are to stay here, we need to learn the ways of English-speaking people, and I know they use given names much more than we do. When Miss Hamilton comes back, ask her what she would like you to call her."

"I like her," Haruko said after some thought. "She spoke Japanese!"

Katsumi laughed and hugged her daughter. "I'm glad you like her." Things would work out, she told herself stubbornly. They had to. What could she do if they didn't?


	3. Chapter 3

§ § § -- December 21, 1996

By the time Katsumi and Haruko ventured into the clearing, the Saturday-night luau had been in full swing for about an hour. A little overwhelmed by all the people, Katsumi kept a good firm grip on her daughter's hand and began to search for Leslie among the throngs of tourists.

So far today, Katsumi had attempted mightily to keep her mind off Kazuo Miyamoto, with varying degrees of success. Soaking up sun on the beach had given her too much time and space to think; getting in some exercise at the swimming pool had cleared her mind. She and Haruko had spent a great deal of time at the little Japanese garden, both assaulted with homesickness and finding a sanctuary there. Haruko had cheered up quickly, though, and had pretended to have a little tea ceremony, the particulars of which she knew all too well from her upbringing at the geisha house. It had been this that had strengthened Katsumi's courage and resolve: eventually, Haruko would have seen far more than she thought was good for a young child, and they were both better off. She sensed a sympathetic spirit in Leslie, and kept buoying her flagging spirits with the consolation that Leslie would surely do all that was in her power to help Katsumi adjust to a whole new life.

"Something smells good, Mama," Haruko piped up, pulling Katsumi back into the present moment. "I'm hungry! Can we have something to eat?"

"Let's find Leslie first," Katsumi said. Leslie had insisted that both she and Haruko use her first name; when Katsumi had protested that it was bad manners for Haruko to address an elder so casually, Leslie had suggested that Haruko preface her name with "miss", as nearly all the islanders did. Katsumi herself was still trying to get used to the easy familiarity with which westerners addressed one another.

"I see her," Haruko exclaimed happily, and Katsumi let the child lead her to a table where Leslie sat with two other young women. One, Katsumi noted with great surprise, was Asian; the other had the palest hair she had ever seen and eyes of a startling green.

Leslie noticed their approach and brightened in welcome. "Hello, you two! Come and sit with us," she invited, indicating an empty chair. Katsumi sat down a little uneasily while Haruko stood between her chair and Leslie's, suddenly quiet.

"Guest, or new friend?" asked the Asian woman.

Leslie grinned. "Both, actually. This is Katsumi Nishimura from Kyoto, and her daughter Haruko. Katsumi, this is Myeko Sensei, and here is Maureen Harding."

Katsumi stared in amazement at Myeko and, without thinking, asked her a question in Japanese. Myeko stared blankly back and then turned red. "This," she told Leslie ruefully, "is one of those times I regret not knowing how to speak Japanese. Except for one shameful little phrase, that is." Sheepishly she said to Katsumi, _"Nihongo ga dekimasen."_

Katsumi blushed in her turn. "Ohh…_gomen nasai_. I am sorry."

"What'd you tell her, that you can't speak Japanese?" Maureen asked, amused, and Myeko nodded. "Well, what about Michiko's sister?"

"Reiko did some translating for us this morning," Leslie said. "As a matter of fact—" She glanced casually over her shoulder as she spoke, but never completed the sentence; her eyes went very wide. "Oh my God. Speak of the devil…"

Katsumi, alerted more by Leslie's expression and tone of voice than her words, twisted in her seat and followed her gaze, and thought she might faint. Strolling through the crowd, not twenty feet away, were Kazuo Miyamoto and Reiko Tokita, arm in arm and clearly oblivious to anyone else. She gasped softly and felt Leslie's hand on her shoulder in response.

"What's the matter?" Maureen asked.

"Um…this is sort of a delicate situation," Leslie said carefully—and at that precise moment, the couple both happened to look directly at them. Kazuo's face grew alarmed; Reiko brightened and pulled her reluctant companion over to their table. Katsumi hung her head in shame, unable to meet anyone else's eyes.

"Hi, Leslie," Reiko said cheerfully. "Did Mr. Roarke give you the evening off?"

"Something like that," Leslie said. "I guess you two are enjoying the luau."

"Well, Kazuo's on break, but…" Reiko cut herself off when she saw Haruko peering at her over Katsumi's bowed head and studied her with a puzzled, curious squint, and a long wired moment dragged by.

Katsumi refused to look up, and Leslie found herself with the feeling that she was caught in a rapidly tightening vise. She had earlier noticed Haruko's resemblance to her father, and knew it would be impossible for Reiko to miss. Uneasily Leslie watched now as realization blossomed across Reiko's face, followed by shock, then anger and betrayal. Like her older sister, Reiko couldn't hide her emotions. She and the little girl stared at each other until Haruko, frightened by Reiko's intense scrutiny and the growing anger on her features, clutched at Katsumi and lowered her own head.

Reiko then turned sharply on Kazuo. "That child looks like you!" she snapped.

Kazuo, startled, shook his head. "I can't father children, Reiko, I told you that before," he said in protest. "There's no proof that the child is mine."

"Oh, come on, Kazuo, she's practically a dead ringer for you," Reiko said. "No wonder you've always been so secretive about your life before you came here. You were hiding your family from me, weren't you?"

Kazuo's face filled with shock. "Reiko, you have absolutely no idea what you're talking about!" he exclaimed. "I didn't know that child existed till this morning, and I hadn't seen her mother in seven years!" At that, Maureen bit her lip; Myeko listened avidly, her eyes huge with fascination.

"You knew the mother?" Reiko cried, and Kazuo squeezed his eyes shut and groaned softly. "Were you ever going to tell me anything about yourself, Kazuo?"

"We never…" Kazuo began, looking around him with deep mortification. Leslie and Maureen glanced at each other, both deeply embarrassed for him, Katsumi and poor Haruko, before Leslie closed her eyes and bit her lip so hard she tasted blood.

"Never made any promises, right," Reiko finished, her voice thickening. "If you were ever planning on it, you can forget it now. It's all over between us, Kazuo. For good!" She stalked out of the clearing, leaving a stunned, shamed silence behind her.

"Wow," Myeko breathed at last. The one word jolted Kazuo back to life and he fled the luau; only then did Katsumi look up and watch him go. Leslie, Maureen and Myeko all saw the one tear that slid from her eye and hovered on her cheek.

Myeko's curiosity slipped its bounds. "What'll you do now, Katsumi?" she asked, meaning to be sympathetic.

"Myeko," Maureen muttered warningly, and Myeko blinked, then realized what she had done and turned brilliant crimson.

Leslie leaned forward, catching Katsumi's attention. "Katsumi, don't cry," she said softly. "It's not your fault. Now he needs to think."

Katsumi looked bleakly back at her. "We go in morning," she said, her accent made even thicker by impending tears. "We go home to Japan. Nothing here for us." Before Leslie had a chance to react, she stood up, gathered Haruko close and picked her up, and swiftly departed the clearing.

"We're not going to ask for details," Maureen said when she was gone, "since this isn't our business in the first place. But I think I can see what happened here. She brought her daughter from Japan in order to meet the girl's father, only to find that things weren't quite as idyllic as she'd painted them in her mind."

"That's a fairly accurate guess," Leslie said, heaving a sigh. "We can't stop Katsumi from leaving on the first plane in the morning if she's really determined to do it, but she'd be going back to a very bleak future." She got to her own feet. "You guys stay here and enjoy the luau for awhile. I need to go find Father."

"You coming back?" Myeko asked.

"I don't know," said Leslie. "Tell you what, if I'm not back in half an hour, it's up to you whatever you want to do."

Maureen nodded. "Okay. Good luck, Leslie."

"I'm not the one who needs it," Leslie said before plunging into the crowd in search of Roarke. Myeko and Maureen exchanged one rueful glance before Myeko flagged down a waiter and put in an order for a very large drink.


	4. Chapter 4

§ § § -- December 22, 1996

His whole life seemed to have fallen apart in the space of one day. Kazuo Miyamoto found it very hard to believe that he had awakened Saturday morning full of cheer and optimism for the day ahead, happy for his prestigious and enlivening job, his friends and the girl he had been casually seeing for some time now. Now, the most damning part of his past had somehow managed to find him, and his world had been tipped askew.

He had mixed feelings about Yoriko—Katsumi, he corrected himself firmly. It was hard to think of her by her true name, when for so long he had known only the mysterious Yoriko. A geisha was a largely unknown and unknowable entity; her world and those of her clients were entirely separate, even alien, which curiously allowed for a surprising amount of emotional intimacy on the part of geisha and client. How well he remembered sharing his hopes and dreams with Yoriko, telling her what his goals were, all but laying open his soul—all because she was anonymous and unreachable. They could never really have a life together, but he had never felt freer with anyone else. She was denied any true knowledge of him, and he of her in turn. That had made her a sort of tangible fantasy. Now, he reflected ironically, he lived on an island that was famous for fantasies—and his geisha had become a very problematic reality!

Reiko had accused him of hiding his family from her, which puzzled him somewhat. She had leaped to several astonishing conclusions and broken off her relationship with him all in one heated moment; yet, when he examined her accusations, he wondered uneasily if there might not be a grain or two of truth in them. Apparently she had expected quite a bit more from this relationship than he'd known. To him it had been a light romance, but it seemed she had regarded it as something far more than that. With some shame he faced the realization that he wasn't especially upset over her breaking off their relationship, and found himself trying to avoid admitting the most obvious reason for that.

Shying away from the understanding he was rapidly reaching, he busied himself in cleanup work at the hotel before going home for the night and searching for refuge in sleep. But he didn't count on the dreams that began to rack him within an hour. They began in all innocence: once again he relived the walks along quiet riverbanks, under cherry blossoms, through tranquil woods, he talking and she listening. It wasn't long before they segued into something altogether more intimate and disturbing. It had taken eight meetings with her before they'd made love the first time, and in his dream he relived that night in such vivid detail that he woke with a violent start, sitting bolt upright in the tangled bedcovers and gasping, sweating, overheated, and drowning in need—both physical and emotional.

_Emotional?_ Where had that come from? But even as he asked himself the question, he knew the answer. No matter how far away he ran, no matter how hard he tried to push those memories into the darkest dungeons of his mind, there was just no escaping the fact that he was, and always had been, in love with Katsumi.

Jarred by the stark admission, he sat in the dark, examining the revelation but knowing it was the inescapable truth. It was why he had never really bonded with Reiko beyond friendship and a romance so light it was practically platonic. It had always been Katsumi, even in the face of his knowledge that they were forbidden each other. He'd done the foolish thing and fallen for the geisha he could never have—except that now he could! And he'd seen in her eyes that she returned his feelings, even more openly than he'd shown his.

He knew he would never be able to sleep, not after those shocking dreams and his newly discovered emotions. Turning on the bedside lamp, he swung out of bed and hastily dressed in the first garments he found, noting in passing that it was barely five in the morning and he was operating on less than four hours of sleep. But he didn't care; he was high on adrenaline and hope, driven by the need to tell Katsumi everything. He rushed through the apartment, jammed on his shoes and grabbed his keys, and plunged out.

The barest hint of first light was just transforming the black eastern sky to a deep, inky indigo when he reached the bungalow where Katsumi and Haruko were staying. He reached up and banged on the door, then waited expectantly. After a long pause he pounded again, but there was still no answer.

Kazuo knocked insistently four more times before he came to the conclusion that no one was there. "No," he muttered aloud in protest. Where else could they be? Frustrated, he lunged off the step and made for the main house in a dead run. When he heard Roarke's voice respond from within to his knock, he rushed inside and stumbled to a halt in front of his very surprised employer.

"Chef Miyamoto! Surely you can't be that eager to begin work…you aren't due at the hotel for several hours yet," Roarke said with a touch of humor.

"Mr. Roarke, I need to know," Kazuo said intensely, planting his palms on the desktop and leaning forward. "Please, sir, where is Katsumi Nishimura? It's imperative that I speak with her immediately."

Roarke drew in a breath and straightened his spine in his chair. "I am terribly sorry, but Miss Nishimura came to us late last night and insisted that we put her on the first charter flight off the island this morning."

Horrified, Kazuo stared at him. "Has the plane left yet?"

Roarke frowned a little and took out his gold watch, checking the time. "No, but it's due to depart in only a few minutes. I am afraid you won't catch her in time."

"I have to," Kazuo burst out. "Mr. Roarke, I'm in love with her."

"Ah…I see," said Roarke softly, his dark eyes warming. After a few seconds' thought, he snapped the watch closed and stood up, replacing it. "Perhaps we can still get to the dock before takeoff. I'll drive you there myself; it's the only chance we have."

Kazuo's breath exploded out of him in a loud relieved gust. "I can't thank you enough, sir," he exclaimed, following Roarke out. "I'm more grateful than you can know."

"It's nothing, Chef Miyamoto, nothing at all," Roarke said dismissively, but he smiled to himself at his own minor folly. He'd never been able to resist an appeal when it involved a love story. He had once been accused of being an encourageable romantic, and that still held true many years later.

Roarke stopped the jeep beside the clearing in the half-light of a false dawn, and just as they got out, they heard the seaplane's engine sputter and whine to life. Kazuo instantly broke into an all-out race to the dock, shouting as he ran. The attendants, startled, gaped at him pounding towards them.

"Stop the plane! Please!" Kazuo roared frantically.

"Too late," one of the attendants said with a shrug. But by then Roarke was striding up the dock in Kazuo's wake, and the other attendant poked his companion.

"It's urgent," Roarke called out. "Tell the pilot to wait a moment."

The second attendant whirled and banged a fist on the outside of the plane as hard as he could; it took a minute or so, but the engine finally died and the hatch popped open, revealing the pilot, who looked more than a little put out. "What's the big idea?"

"I need to speak with one of your passengers," Kazuo blurted. "Please, it's extremely important. Her name is Katsumi Nishimura."

"It's all right," Roarke interjected. "Please have Miss Nishimura disembark."

"Oh…okay, Mr. Roarke, if you say so," the pilot said and ducked back inside. About thirty seconds elapsed before a bewildered Katsumi emerged; she stopped in the middle of climbing out and stared at Kazuo, who extended both hands to her in entreaty.

"Katsumi, I beg you for a few moments of your time," he said in Japanese. "There are things I must tell you, things you must know."

"But I'm leaving," Katsumi said, her voice flat with an effort to control emotions that were too close to the surface. "Haruko and I are returning to Japan."

"You can't go yet," Kazuo said. "Give me a chance, please. If you will at least wait for a later flight, you'll have time for breakfast at the hotel, and I can speak with you properly."

Katsumi waffled visibly, torn between wanting to believe him and needing to prevent any further hurt for either herself or Haruko. Her eyes darted from one thing to another till they lit on Roarke, who stood several feet away, watching with the slightest of smiles.

"If you wish," Roarke said, "you may return to the Plumeria Bungalow, so that you can have some privacy."

Katsumi struggled, clearly understanding only a few words, before unwillingly turning to Kazuo. He smiled and translated Roarke's words, adding a few of his own. "Poor Haruko, I think she would be happier sleeping in a bed," he said.

Mention of Haruko finally swayed her. "All right, we will stay a little longer," she said, "and I will hear what you wish to tell me."

Kazuo sagged in relief while Katsumi dipped back into the plane long enough to retrieve Haruko. The second attendant followed her in so he could get their luggage before it left without them. Kazuo turned to Roarke and earnestly shook his hand. "Mr. Roarke, I can't repay you enough for what you've done for me this weekend. First the raise, now helping me to reach out to Katsumi. You have my eternal gratitude, sir."

Roarke smiled and shook his head. "There's no need," he said. "I wish you the best of luck. Please excuse me." He headed back to the jeep; a few seconds later Katsumi and Haruko stepped out of the seaplane and the attendant emerged behind her with their suitcases. Kazuo promptly picked up the luggage and led the way off the dock, taking mother and child back to the bungalow they had deserted less than an hour before. Roarke had given him the key, which he now used to let them in; he waited in the main room while Katsumi settled an already-slumbering Haruko back into bed.

She looked apprehensive when she came back, and again Kazuo noted that he wasn't entirely comfortable seeing her in western dress. He'd better get used to it, he thought with an inward smile. "Katsumi, what made you try to leave so quickly?"

"You don't want us here," she said baldly, as if having decided to drop even the pretense of sticking to the endlessly self-deprecating façade that constituted Japanese good manners. "You're involved with another woman, and you're ashamed of us."

"No, no, that's not it at all," he exclaimed. "Please, Katsumi, hear me out. Reiko and I were a couple, this is true…but not now. I must admit that I was never really in love with her. I think she expected more of me than I knew." He went on to tell her about his dreams, skimming over the images that he still remembered all too well, and his revelations in their wake. Through it all, Katsumi stood watching him, her face inscrutable for the first time; even her black eyes gave nothing away.

Kazuo sputtered to a halt, sensing with alarm that he wasn't getting through to her. "Katsumi, do you believe me?"

She dropped her gaze and studied the carpet beneath her feet. "I want to. But you don't believe that Haruko is your daughter."

Kazuo winced. "Does this mean that you still plan to leave here?"

Katsumi's eyes met his once more. Slowly she said, "I think we should. All I can do is return to Japan. I can barely speak English, and I'm not educated, nor trained to do anything except the duties of a geisha. I can see no other choice."

Kazuo stepped forward and grasped her hands, too quickly to give her time to move out of his reach. "The next charter won't leave until eight o'clock, Katsumi, but if I have anything to say about it, you won't be on that one either. Don't you understand? _Anata o aishite imasu._ I love you."

The direct statement seemed to hit Katsumi right between the eyes and she gawked at him. Her expression was difficult to interpret, as if she were caught between astonishment, delight, disbelief and wariness all at once. She stood there searching his face, perhaps looking for some obvious sign of prevarication, but he knew she wouldn't find it. He had just given her his heart, after all.

"I never dreamed to hear you say those words to me," she admitted at last.

"They're the truth, pure and simple," he assured her. "After those dreams last night, I realized there's never been anyone except you. I must have fallen in love with you within the first few meetings in Kyoto, and I've been in love with you ever since then. I had to shut those feelings away because I was certain I would never see you again. Now that you're here and I have a second chance, I won't be so foolish as to let you get away from me."

Just for a moment she looked uncertain, as though she still had questions, but he could tell from her shining eyes that he'd finally convinced her. When she let him enfold her into his embrace, he got the satisfying feeling that his heart had come home at last.

‡ ‡ ‡

Just before seven, there was a tapping on the door and Roarke looked up; by now Leslie was up, answering an e-mail from Christian. "Come in," he called.

In walked Reiko Tokita, dressed for traveling and carrying two suitcases. Leslie, forgetting the computer, jumped to her feet. "Reiko, where are you going?"

"To Arcolos to visit Michiko for awhile," Reiko said, her voice crisp. "Mr. Roarke, when does the next charter leave?"

"Eight o'clock," said Roarke. "You have enough time to let your sister know you're on the way, if you'd like to use the computer."

Reiko shook her head. "No thank you," she said. "If you want to alert her, Leslie, you can, but…I don't feel like trying to explain things." Her businesslike veneer cracked and she bit her lip. "Michiko thinks that sooner or later, she'll be called back here for a wedding, and I hate to think how wrong she was."

"I'm sorry, Reiko," Leslie said gently. "I really wish you hadn't been hurt in the course of all this."

Reiko shrugged, trying without success to look unconcerned. "Well, as my father said last night, I'm young and I'll get over it. Besides, it's my understanding that my brother-in-law the prince has two brothers who're still single." She gave Leslie a crooked little smile. "Don't worry about me, okay? I know this is kind of drastic, but Fantasy Island's too small for me not to run into Kazuo all the time, and I just can't bear that."

"Believe me, I can understand perfectly," Leslie told her, then glanced at Roarke and bit her lip. "It's just that I feel like we're to blame for this…"

"Oh, Leslie, come on," Reiko said. "You and Mr. Roarke didn't bring Katsumi Nishimura here—she came on her own initiative, and you two were just granting her fantasy. At any rate, now that I've had some time to look back, I can see that Kazuo's heart wasn't really into our relationship. I guess I just wasn't the right girl for him."

Roarke regarded her with a smile. "Your attitude is very commendable, Reiko," he said warmly. "Like Leslie, I regret that you were hurt in the course of Miss Nishimura's having her fantasy granted, and I wish you luck and success in whatever venture you embark upon next. Have a safe journey to Arcolos and an enjoyable visit with your sister."

"And tell Michiko I said hi," added Leslie with a grin that faded quickly. "Do you want me to tell her anything, Reiko? I don't mind sending her an e-mail to let her know you're coming, but I won't tell her any more than you want me to."

"You can say anything you want," Reiko said and shrugged again. "It'll save me the trouble of having to tell her the whole miserable story when I get there, so if you want to spill the whole can of beans, go right ahead. You can even tell her I said you could."

Roarke and Leslie laughed, and Reiko grinned in reply. "Okay, I'll give Michiko a heads-up," Leslie promised. "Do you think you'll be coming back?"

"I dunno," Reiko said. "I guess that depends on a lot of things." She picked up her suitcases. "I think I'll go to the plane dock and wait there. Thanks, to both of you."

"Take care of yourself, Reiko," Leslie said, and Reiko smiled at her, then left quietly. Leslie watched her go, then studied Roarke curiously. "You say Chef Miyamoto managed to catch Katsumi just as the plane was about to leave?"

Roarke nodded. "She seemed willing to talk, but I recall your mention to me last night of the fact that the chef doesn't believe that Haruko is his child. Until they can find some manner of resolving that issue, they will never be able to forge a life together, no matter what sort of understanding they come to."

"No, they won't," said Leslie, "but short of a DNA test, how can they find an answer that'll convince Chef Miyamoto?" She didn't really expect a reply, and when Roarke only shook his head and returned his attention to his accounting, she took the cue and focused once more on her message to Christian.


	5. Chapter 5

§ § § -- December 22, 1996

At six o'clock Kazuo had to leave for the hotel to begin work, and he told Katsumi to come for breakfast in a couple of hours or so. She agreed and set about changing her clothes, wondering now what was going to happen. They'd sat and talked for some time; though they were in love, they still disagreed about Haruko. Katsumi tried to see it from his point of view: his doctor had told him he couldn't have children due to some illness, and he must have taken it so completely to heart that he couldn't, or wouldn't, see the distinct resemblance between him and Haruko. Katsumi remembered wistfully that, when Haruko had been born, she had been overjoyed for the baby's resemblance to Kazuo, for to her it meant that she had a reminder of the man she'd fallen in love with, a living keepsake of those sweet and beautiful days with him.

She was still wondering what would make him believe when Haruko awoke and ran into the main room to greet her mother. "We came back, Mama!" she exclaimed. "Why?"

"Your father stopped us," Katsumi told her. "I think he wants us to stay, but I'm not sure. Hurry and dress, Haruko-chan—we are to have breakfast at the hotel where he works, and I'm sure you're hungry."

"I hope they'll have something good to eat," Haruko said, face brightening with anticipation. "But no fish, Mama-san." She made a face.

"I'll tell them not to give you fish," Katsumi assured her, smiling. "Hurry now."

At the hotel, just before eight, Katsumi waited in the restaurant vestibule, scanning the dining room and wondering if she might catch a glimpse of Kazuo. It looked as if all the tables were occupied, but after a few minutes the maitre d' appeared and showed her and Haruko to a table. They didn't have to wait long before a short, skinny fellow approached them. Katsumi had to work at not staring at him; he was liberally freckled over every square inch of skin and had hair of a shade of red that should more properly have been called orange. Haruko, too young to know better and having never seen hair of that color before, gaped at the waiter in fascination.

The red-headed waiter got a good look at them and came to an abrupt halt, his eyes narrowing suddenly for just a moment before he adopted an officious tone. "What can we bring you for breakfast?" he inquired. "I can recommend trout or salmon, maybe some cod. And the little girl might prefer tuna."

"No fish, please," said Katsumi politely, wondering why the condescension from this man. Was rudeness so easily tolerated in western countries? "I will have rice, and my girl have rice also."

"I'm sorry, there's no rice. I can bring fruit," the waiter said.

"Yes, fruit, please. You not make rice?" Katsumi asked hopefully.

The waiter shook his head sharply. "No rice, sorry," he said. "I'm sure you'd rather have something Japanese for breakfast though—after all, I can tell you wouldn't be used to western food, from your speech." He sounded smug, Katsumi thought, though she missed some two-thirds of what he was saying. "We have fruit or fish…no rice."

Haruko, having finally lost interest in the waiter, had been staring at the menu and now held it up to Katsumi, pointing at a photo. "Mama-san, I'd like to have this," she said earnestly. Katsumi peered at it; it was a picture of a plate containing pancakes with bacon and sausage. "It looks good."

Katsumi giggled. "Those flat cakes are very large," she said, like her daughter using Japanese.

Haruko tilted her head pleadingly. "Please, Mama, I want this. There's a boy over there and he's eating it." Haruko's gaze shifted to a nearby table, where a pregnant Asian woman sat with a boy about Haruko's age. Katsumi noticed that the boy was eagerly wolfing down a short stack of pancakes, just as Haruko had said.

"All right," Katsumi agreed indulgently and turned to the waiter. "My girl have this dish in picture," she said, pointing at the photo.

The waiter's eyebrows shot up and he smirked, but shrugged and wrote down the order. "And you, ma'am?"

"You say no rice, so I have fruit," Katsumi said.

"Okay, fruit it is," said the waiter. He left, and Katsumi frowned after him, wondering why he had such an attitude. Since he worked here, Kazuo probably knew him, and he might be willing to tell her. She looked around the dining room while they waited, till her attention was snared by Haruko, who was intently watching the boy with the pancakes. It was inevitable that he'd notice her scrutiny, and when he did, he stuck out his tongue at her. It was coated with bits of pancake, and Haruko wrinkled her nose.

The boy's mother noticed. "David James Omamara, that's rude…not to mention disgusting," she said. "Don't do that again—especially not with your mouth full."

The boy swallowed. "That girl was lookin' at me, Mom," he protested.

"Let her look," came the response. "She wasn't hurting you." She looked around and noticed Katsumi watching and trying to hide a smile. "I'm sorry about that."

"They are children only," Katsumi offered, letting the smile bloom.

"True." The woman laughed. "You're from Japan, aren't you?"

"Yes, first time away," Katsumi said, hoping her English was up to the conversational effort. "I am Katsumi Nishimura, and my girl, Haruko, here. My…my man, Kazuo, here he is…chef. We come stay here with him."

"Oh, you're Chef Miyamoto's wife?" the woman said, surprised. "I had no idea he was married. Welcome to the island. I'm Camille Omamara, and this is my son David. My husband Jimmy is the hotel manager."

Katsumi had time for no more than a smile when the waiter returned with a plate of fruit. "Your fruit, lady. The pancakes will be a few more minutes." Without waiting for a reply, he left.

Camille, who had seen what happened, snorted. "Just your bad luck to get Wilbur," she muttered. "Don't pay any attention to him…he can be a jerk." At that moment David let out a loud burp and she turned sharply to him, while Katsumi wondered what a "jerk" was. "David James…what do you say?"

The boy rolled his eyes but said, "Excuse me." At the same time the waiter, Wilbur, returned with a plate which he put in front of Haruko. She beamed happily and stuck her fork into one of the pancakes, pulling off a chunk and taking her first bite, then nodding vigorously at Katsumi.

Katsumi grinned and filled a small plate with fruit, prepared to enjoy her own breakfast. Haruko seemed to take a great liking to everything on her plate except the bacon, of which she took one bite, made a face but swallowed anyway, as if afraid to waste the food. Katsumi raised her eyebrows. "What's wrong?"

"That meat tasted strange, Mama," said Haruko with a shrug. She ate a bite of sausage and grinned. "That's better."

Katsumi laughed and glanced across the way at Camille and David, who were close to finishing; then there was a choking noise from Haruko and she turned back, noting her daughter's suddenly pale face. "Haruko-chan, what is it?"

"I feel…" Haruko muttered, then sucked in a breath before slumping back in her seat. Her head lolled to one side and her body convulsed; then everything she'd eaten came back up, with no warning at all. Katsumi cried out in alarm and leaped to her feet; nearby diners saw and muttered, some in annoyance, some in revulsion. Camille jumped up as well, but her reaction was one of sympathy.

"Poor kid. Gosh, what happened? David," she said, twisting her head to address her son, "go get Dad, and hurry." David scrambled out of his chair and eagerly fled the dining room. Haruko, barely conscious now, lay limply in her chair while Camille and Katsumi, stepping around the mess, got a good look at her and realized that the situation was more serious than just a child getting sick. "What did she eat?" Camille asked urgently.

"She have this," Katsumi said, terrified, pointing at Haruko's plate. "She see your boy have this and she want same."

Camille surveyed the plate. "Pancakes, sausage and bacon," she murmured, then scowled and peered more closely at it. "Hey, that's not bacon. What the heck…?" By this time three other waiters, including Wilbur, had gathered around and were working at cleaning the mess on the floor. Wilbur was complaining to his co-workers and not being very discreet about it, and Camille thumped him on the shoulder. "Hey, you," she said, "since you have such a problem with this, suppose you go back and find the master chef."

Wilbur peered up at her and scowled. "Lady, this isn't your problem," he said.

Just then David came back with his father in tow; they were in time to overhear. "It might not be her problem, but it's definitely yours," Jimmy said. "Get Chef Miyamoto."

Wilbur knew authority when he heard it, at least, and promptly obeyed. Jimmy took in the scene and asked in amazement, "What happened?"

"You shoulda seen it, Dad!" David spoke up eagerly. "That girl was eatin' pancakes and sausage, just like me, and she had a bite of bacon, and then she barfed all over the place! Wow, she sure messed up the carpet!" He stared in awe at the floor around Haruko's chair.

"David," Camille groaned in rebuke and turned to her husband. "Something's wrong with the little girl. She must've had a reaction to something she was eating—and I noticed that this 'bacon' on her plate isn't bacon at all."

"What?" Jimmy said, leaning forward to get a look at Haruko's plate. "Good Lord," he blurted, "those are anchovies! What the hell's going on here?"

Wilbur and Kazuo joined them then, just as Jimmy sent one of the other waiters off to call an ambulance. Haruko had lost consciousness altogether and was audibly wheezing with every breath; Katsumi was in a tearful panic. Kazuo took in the scene and asked what had happened; Camille quickly summarized the situation.

Before Kazuo could react, Jimmy demanded, "Why are there anchovies on this plate? This was supposed to be bacon!"

"Anchovies!" Kazuo echoed, stunned.

Wilbur said, "It was a substitution. Don't all Japanese eat fish? We were outta bacon anyway, and I didn't see the harm."

"_Anchobi! Iie!"_ wailed Katsumi, and Kazuo stepped hurriedly around Wilbur to turn her around so she faced him. She had recognized the English word, as the Japanese word was nearly identical.

In Japanese Kazuo said urgently, "Tell me, Katsumi, what happened to Haruko?"

Relieved for someone who would understand her, Katsumi cried, "She wanted this for breakfast, so that man with the orange hair brought it to her. We never saw that meat before, and we didn't know. If those are anchovies, then that's what made Haruko ill. She is allergic to all fish. Now she might die!"

Kazuo turned immediately to Jimmy and rapidly explained this to him in English; Jimmy nodded. "We've got paramedics on the way," he said, then glared at Wilbur. "What was that you said a minute ago? 'All Japanese eat fish', was it? I don't know what your problem is, buddy, but we've already had some complaints about you, and this is the most serious mistake you've made yet. Well, it's your last, because you're fired. Get out."

No one watched Wilbur slink away; instead, Camille tried to comfort Katsumi while the other two waiters continued to clean the mess and Jimmy sent David out to the lobby to watch for the ambulance. But Kazuo, going over what Katsumi had said, froze and stared at the unconscious child being cradled in her mother's arms. _Haruko was allergic to fish?_ It was highly rare for this to happen to a Japanese, a people for whom fish was a dietary staple; but it did occur now and then. He knelt beside Katsumi and draped an arm around her shoulders. "It'll be all right," he assured her. "Haruko won't die, I promise."

David came racing back into the dining room, yelling excitedly, "The amb'lance is here, Dad, they just came! Here they come!" The paramedics, bearing a stretcher, took charge, while Katsumi hovered frantically over Haruko, following them out.

"Wow," said Camille, exhaling loudly. "I think that's a little more excitement than I expected on a Sunday morning."

Jimmy nodded and noticed Kazuo. "You okay, Chef?" he asked.

Kazuo swallowed. "I'm sorry, Omamara-san, but…you see, that child is my daughter. I…I wouldn't ask, but…"

"Go, by all means," Jimmy said immediately. "Explanations can wait till later."

With a breathless thanks, Kazuo ran from the room and straight out of the building, without even slowing down till he had reached the hospital. Katsumi was in a chair in the waiting room, still looking terrified, and he went straight to her. "Kazuo," she gasped and finally burst into sobs, falling into his arms.

"It's going to be all right, Katsumi, I promise," he soothed her. "Listen to me. I know. They'll take good care of Haruko and she'll be just as good as new." He tipped her face up so that she met his gaze. "You see, I too am allergic to all fish. I can't even prepare fish dishes unless I am wearing rubber gloves. You're right: Haruko truly is my child. She inherited her unfortunate allergy from me, and I wish to apologize."

Katsumi's tears turned to watery giggles. "Oh, Kazuo, how can you apologize for a thing you couldn't control? But…I didn't know you were allergic to fish…"

"Do you mean to tell me that not once, in all the times we were together, you never noticed that not a flake of fish ever passed my lips? And here I thought you knew me." He was grinning. "It runs in my family, and I have never yet known any others, except a few non-Japanese, who have exhibited this allergy. I don't know how it happened, but I can see that I truly did father your daughter."

"I always knew you were her father. There was never another man, and from the time she was born, she looked like you," Katsumi said. "But I had no idea that she would have to reveal her allergy to fish to prove to you that she's your child." She gave him an impish little smile. "Since you're here, perhaps you'd better ask a doctor to examine you, because I think the one who cared for you during that illness was a quack."

They both burst out laughing and hugged each other tightly, evoking smiles from the staff at the admissions desk, and sat down to wait for news of their daughter.

§ § § -- December 23, 1996

Following the quiet Japanese-style wedding late in the afternoon, Kazuo and Katsumi dropped in on Roarke and Leslie just after supper on Monday evening. "We can never thank you enough, Mr. Roarke," Kazuo said, speaking for both himself and Katsumi. "This truly was a fantasy come to life for me. We'll bring something back for you from our trip." They were taking a honeymoon journey to Japan, bringing Haruko along with them.

"Oh, that isn't necessary," Roarke protested, smiling. "We're just glad to know that you two are so happy together."

"But there's one thing you might want to consider while you're gone," Leslie said. "I talked about this with Father, and he's in agreement. We've been thinking it might be nice to have authentic tea ceremonies in the Japanese teahouse, and we were wondering if Katsumi might be interested in a position as hostess there. She'd have full charge of arranging the ceremonies, choosing the right tea and china and everything else, and she could work on weekends and during school hours so that she could be home with Haruko otherwise."

Kazuo grinned. "It sounds good. Katsumi…" He turned to her and repeated Leslie's words in rapid Japanese; Katsumi lit up.

"I take job, yes…_domo arigato."_ Katsumi beamed at Leslie. "So glad we are friends."

"Me too," said Leslie, a little embarrassed but happy all the same. "Incidentally, I heard from Camille about what happened in the hotel yesterday morning. She said Jimmy fired that waiter. Where'd he end up?"

Roarke smiled. "He's cleaning restrooms at the casino," he said, and they all laughed. "Have a very safe and pleasant journey, and we'll look forward to your return."

Leslie watched them go. "It's my understanding that Haruko's going to be in the same class with Camille's son," she remarked. "Knowing David, I have a feeling that she'll never be allowed to forget being sick in the hotel dining room." She and Roarke traded rueful grins and got back to work.

* * *

_Next up will be a whimsical little piece distantly inspired by at least one skit I remember seeing on the show. Roarke's about to hear a lot of job complaints: if we don't believe in Santa and the Easter Bunny, then why should they believe in us?_


End file.
